


Harsh Light

by Leonharte



Category: Carmilla (Web Series)
Genre: Canon Compliant, F/F, Minor Original Character(s), Vampire Hunters, Vampire Slayer(s), character backstory
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-08
Updated: 2015-09-11
Packaged: 2018-04-19 17:40:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,715
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4755260
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Leonharte/pseuds/Leonharte
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Carmilla escapes from her coffin, all she can think about is revenge.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A mostly canon compliant adventure in the Carmilla universe that includes a shadowy group of enlightened vampire hunters. Skips between the past and current timelines as alternating chapters. Waiting for the outcome of S2 before getting in too deep.

Late 1700’s - Eastern Europe

“I don’t know why I agreed to come with you this time. I was having a great time in London!” Mircalla pants, rushing around a corner and slamming her back into the wall. Matska is half a pace behind her.  
“Admit it, you love the thrill of my adventures and the exotic people we meet,” Matska teased, nearly as breathless as Mircalla.  
“Exotic is right,” she muttered, lifting her left arm to examine two deep scratches on her bicep that were dripping blood down her arm. Matska notices and grasps her arm to take a closer look. She shakes her head.

“What?” Mircalla asked, yanking her arm out of her older sister’s grasp.  
“This isn’t just your average torch and pitchforks mob sis. That damage happened to be inflicted by silver,” Matska informed her, peeking around the corner to look for aforementioned mob.  
“You can tell just by looking at it?” Mircalla raised an eyebrow.  
“It’s not healing, and might take a while too. Come on, let’s keep moving,” Matska turns Mircalla and ushers her down the dark, empty road. There is a muffled roar of an angry group of villagers from somewhere behind them. 

The pale skinned Mircalla resisted at first, not understanding why Matska wanted to run and not turn and rip all their throats out. But there was a strange look on her sister’s face she didn’t quite understand so she followed her lead. Skirts were not made for high speed exits and soon Matska pulled her younger sister down another alley to attempt to double back on the mob. She paused, listening intently, and nodded smugly at the sounds getting further away in the opposite direction. Mircalla pulled away from her and smoothed the front of her skirts with a huff.

“Care to explain, oh wise one?” she asked indignantly. “We could have eaten them all for a midnight snack!”  
“Mircalla, there was at least one hunter amongst them. That’s how they managed to get the drop on us. Well, that and your pretty young thing distracting you. The silver used to wound you is the mark of a professional,” Matska explained, clearly irritated with Mircalla’s ignorance.  
“I thought vampire hunters were a myth?” Mircalla raised an eyebrow in disbelief.

“Well that’s what I thought about vampires, at first.”  
The voice came from a rooftop above them, and the vampires turned to face the figure hiding in the darkness just as a shot rang out. Matska vaulted to her left as Mircalla climbed the rough wall in two quick cat-like leaps to land in front of their attacker. He was already loading more powder into the flintlock pistol.  
“Whatever happened to good old fashioned stakes?” Mircalla quipped, knocking the pistol out of his hand. He stood from his crouching position and Mircalla observed he was dressed in plain, dark clothing and was missing his left ear. She shot towards him, hands raised towards his head. To her surprise, he matched her speed, catching her left wrist in his right hand and driving his knee into her stomach. Mircalla dropped, eyes wide in disbelief. No human had equalled her since she was turned.

This hunter didn’t waste any time, drawing a long hunting knife from his belt. He drew his arm back for a backhanded swing meant to decapitate her. Mircalla caught his elbow mid swing and swept his legs out from under him. As he fell there was a feral roar from behind her and Matska pounced in a blur. There was a spray of bright red blood as she tore open his throat. Mircalla picked herself up from the floor and walked over to where the knife had dropped on the rooftop.

The blade was inscribed with a couple of symbols she couldn’t interpret. The metal made her skin tingle as she picked it up. Matska finished feeding and stood to join her.  
“Silver,” she confirmed what her sister was thinking. Mircalla looked down at the dead body of the hunter and noticed a chain around his neck. Kneeling down to pull it free she discovered a metal tag engraved with one of the symbols from the knife. Mircalla viciously yanked it from his neck with an angry look on her face.

“He was fast, Matska,” Mircalla muttered.  
“I hear they do deals with demons,” she answered, taking both the knife and tag from Mircalla to have a look.  
“Really? Work with one creature of the underworld just to get rid of another?” Mircalla scoffed at the idea.  
“Some demons like humans. Most demons don’t like vampires,” Matska shrugged. “I’ve come across a few of them.”  
“Demons or hunters?”  
“Both. Best way to deal with both is to kill them, too.”  
“Well no wonder they both hate us,” Mircalla said with a smirk. She took the tag back from Matska’s hands. “You can have the knife, I know you love that sort of stuff.”

“Why thank you. Now, the night is still young. Shall we?” Matska slipped the knife into her skirts and they exchanged a glance and a raised eyebrow before disappearing into the night.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I can't post any current time chapters until I've seen how season 2 is going to play out. Have some more Mircalla/Carmilla pre-Laura.

September 1945 - London

Mircalla had been wandering in a stupor for a few years now. Freed from the coffin of blood to a world that was at the same time somehow both duller and brighter than the one she had left behind. Time had passed without meaning and she had emerged with an insatiable hunger, tearing a bloody path through the battlefield that had broken her imprisonment as the munitions dropped around her and bullets and shrapnel tore through her numbed flesh. 

She moved from town to town at night, fitting in with the destruction of the war without calling attention to herself. Dressed in scraps of uniforms she had taken from her victims, she hid during the day, resting without sleeping. Everytime she closed her eyes she was back in her eternal grave.

As time passed, she became more aware of the world as it now was and made more of an effort to slip in with civilization. She traded her battle-worn and bloodied scraps for far more inconspicuous attire and let her fangs sink back into gums. She followed departing soldiers across the Channel to Britain, desperate to get as far from Austria as possible. 

Mircalla found herself sitting outside a pub on the banks of the Thymes, sipping on a glass of wine. A slight scuff on the cobblestones beside her made her look up. A young man was standing next to her, a beer in hand.  
“May I sit, miss?” he asked, gesturing to the empty space beside her on the bench. She shrugged, and he took it as an invitation.  
“To the end of the war,” he raised his glass in front of her face and she met it with hers.   
“So why is a pretty lady like yourself out here on her own?” he inquired, sipping his drink. Mircalla decided to entertain him, he might make an easy snack later on she decided. His curly brown hair and pale skin made him look rather tempting.  
“Oh, I just needed some air. It’s dreadfully loud and suffocating in there,” she replied.  
“We’re celebrating! Lord knows we could all use some joviality. Thomas, by the way,” he held out his hand.

She looked him up and down. It was a split second decision, and looking back she couldn’t say why she decided to reply the way she did.  
“Carmilla,” she took his hand. Thomas raised her hand to his lips and kissed it. It was then ‘Carmilla’ noticed the ring on his finger, and her body felt like she had been hit by lightning. There was something about the ring that felt so familiar, yet distant. Thomas noticed something was wrong.  
“What is it? Are you about to swoon? I didn’t know I had that effect on pretty ladies!” he placed a hand on her back, just in case, concern etched on his boyish face.  
“Your ring,” Carmilla whispered. He raised his hand to peer at it himself.  
“A family heirloom,” he said, nonchalant. Carmilla shot away from him.

“Stay away from me!” She growled. The symbol etched on his ring had jumped into her mind, like a scene from a play. Memories of her, Matska and the hunter played in front of her eyes. From the corner of her eye she noticed a few of the establishment’s patrons were looking funnily at her and Thomas. She bolted into an alley, keen to put distance between them, very aware of the fact that it was Matska, and not herself, that had killed the last hunter to cross her path. 

“Carmilla! Wait!” So Thomas had followed. Carmilla turned to face him in the darkness, fangs drawn. Away from the crowds, in the shadows, she felt like she had an upper hand against whatever demon-wielding powers he might possess.  
“Stay back, hunter! Let me go in peace, and I won’t end your miserable life,” it was a half-lie. Thomas took a step back, confused.  
“What? I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he protested.  
“Don’t play games with me, Thomas, you have the mark of a hunter, and you have obviously sought me out of the crowd to claim another kill,” Carmilla bit back.   
“Hunter? What? Kill? I’m so confused. I honestly have no idea what you’re talking about,” he took a step back as she advanced menacingly. “Please don’t hurt me!”

Carmilla stopped, confused. Maybe he wasn’t a hunter. Maybe they had died out, but kept their symbology as some sort of family crest. Carmilla pulled the metal tag she had kept from the hunter from the 1700’s from her pocket and threw it to him. He fumbled, dropped it, and picked it up again.  
“It’s the same as your ring. Start talking,” she instructed.  
“I don’t know how you got this. Are you related to my grandfather in some way? That’s who my ring is from,” Thomas said, his voice shaking as he turned the tag in his hand.  
“What does your grandfather do?” Carmilla asked.  
“He was a blacksmith. Retired. My mother takes care of him now,” Thomas replied, and flinched as she took a step towards him.  
“I want to talk to him.”


End file.
